


just another recovering heart (so don't let me down)

by earnmysong



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18261974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earnmysong/pseuds/earnmysong
Summary: “You’re spending five more minutes in here while I short,” [Steve] keeps clear of her injurious accent piece, instead guiding his touch over the affected area of her neck, “this out. The whole damn jacket’s attached to you through this...”// Wanda copes with her time in The Raft as best she can.





	just another recovering heart (so don't let me down)

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place fairly soon after the end of _Captain America: Civil War_ , and it was written before _Infinity War_ , so there are no elements of that canon included.
> 
> Thank you to @andibeth82/@isjustprogress & @irishmizzy/@megalong for their invaluable and much appreciated assistance!
> 
> If you're wondering why looking at this gave you an odd sense of deja vu, the answer is simple: I was stupid and deleted it a little over a year ago. Now I've come to the realization that I really do love it as much, or more than, other things I've written. So here it is -- again. 
> 
> Marvel and MGM/Warner Brothers own everything that they rightfully should. The title comes courtesy of Haim's 'Little of Your Love'.

For Wanda, darkness has always been so much more than the absence of light. Black midnight and early-morning violet churn until they take solid form in front of her, the odd sounds that push through the wall of white noise forever being granted the power of speech. 

When she was small, these words had been the earnest assurances of a playmate, imparting snatches of advice, colluding on intricate ideas and games and adventures to be enacted in the brilliant, cold light of the next day. Later, she (for the darkness felt as real to Wanda as Pietro, stood beside her as solidly) became a fair-weather friend: during the night, full of harsh, hard whispers promoting despair, guilt, and childish fear, urging Wanda to drown in her hatred; in the morning, reminding Wanda of the beauty that Sokovia still held, again putting forth plans. Fun-filled fantasies eventually gave way to rescues and reconstruction, as much as a ten-year-old could accomplish with the assistance of her brother. 

The viscous ink of the atmosphere that surrounds her now, powerlessly confined in The Raft, bears no resemblance to her former companion. Darkness has shifted easily into the role of her enemy, joining the others in her life who have recently done the same. Camaraderie and some measure of protection have bled into a suffocating anguish.

Scott gets to his feet in a cell down the hall, some part of him (judging by the sharp connection, a knee) colliding with his personal metal bench; his _damn_ is long and heartfelt. When he’s recovered, his heels – she infers – click together, and he’s standing at attention. 

With the sound, a memory unfurls, easily sponging her bleak environment from view.

*

Steve finds her sprawled on a couch in the tower, when she should have been restricting her infection-infused frame to her own space. She means to explain that she’s been attempting to move for the last hour, how her room contains only three boxes, an unmade bed, and the overpowering smell of drying paint, all of which she finds too unwelcoming to brave.

“I tried –” she starts, flicking a wrist in the direction of her door. _You’re the one who is telepathic, not him_ , her brain somehow has the capacity to chide, although finishing sentences has been deemed unmanageable.

Steve smiles sympathetically. “Have you seen _The Wizard of Oz_?” he asks conversationally, walking by her into the kitchen. She wonders if he’s even in the building. Perhaps her fever has deconstructed some sort of barrier, permitted the forces she harnesses to attack her own senses. 

She recalls faded pictures: red shoes that shine, an evil woman with thin, severe features riding a bicycle and filling her scene menacingly, a man made of metal crying in a snowy field of flowers. As she thinks of a detail, she sends it across to him. (If he ends up being produced by her imagination, what of it? She’ll simply be conversing with empty air, analyzing narrative elements.) When her list concludes, she adds, “It was many years ago. I cannot remember the story.”

Steve returns carrying a glass of orange juice and a water bottle, alternates holding each one closer to her. She picks the latter, making contact with his palm before she hits plastic, verifying his presence. As he drops to sit beside her, he shakes pills into her grasp, aiming a concerned frown her way when she laughs. “Take those,” he instructs, busying himself with the line of controls Tony has arranged on the table, glancing at her every so often to check that she’s – conscious, breathing, coherent, alive? She cannot judge which choice is correct from his expression alone, and she’s too tired to delve into his thoughts.

As he experiments (the picture on the television is first blue, followed by a variety of colors colliding together, and, finally, the people in the documentary that Sam left on are trapped in a salt-and-pepper blizzard), he spins a story. The Steve Rogers the world adores, their Captain America, does not appear, nor does the man she admires: her superior, her teacher, her friend. Steven Grant Rogers, asthmatic, frail college student, takes the lead and, in the summer of 1939, he’d gotten pneumonia. 

“Third time, too.” Steve slides across the hardwood triumphantly, having solved the mystery of the home theater system, gotten normal characters to materialize. “Always in the summer. Never understood that – still don’t. Pneumonia in a heat wave?” She doesn’t think he wants an answer. Rather than inquiry, incredulity attaches the interrogatory rise to his condition. She grants him a shrug, though, because she’s as confused by the universe as he is – even if the reasons behind their feelings differ. 

“Anyway.” He stares in the direction of his chest, rebuking his insides for repeatedly betraying him all those years ago. “My mother had passed a few weeks prior – which probably accounts for a big part of why I got sick. Way back when, I didn’t always handle stress all that well and, when she died, I became an orphan.” 

Wanda flinches, an involuntary reaction to, quite possibly, her least favorite term in any language, an identifier that lumps her and Steve together in a group of which no one deserves to be a member. “You never really grow into it, no matter how old you are, you know?” Her breath hitches as she nods, and he wraps a comforting arm around her. “I was legally an adult, had been for years, and my system still found it necessary to shut down, pretty much cave in on itself, for a while.” He presses Play on the nearest remote, gray clouds sweeping across the screen, his conclusion blending with the first notes of the score. “I took myself, as under the weather and unhappy as I was, to see this and, believe it or not, I remember everything about it.”

“It has expanded into a ‘Steve Rogers day of illness tradition’ over many decades? Can that please be the first piece of advice you include in your self-improvement book? If you write one, that is. I’ll bet you everyone who doesn’t have a copy would be falling over herself in her hurry to buy one.” Paying determined attention to the beginning of the film, she misses the look he gives her, the fact that her suggestion has truly amused him.

“If you want to file away my quick fixes for the pitfalls of life, or compile my pearls of wisdom on the topic of your choice, you can’t be just any schmo from around the corner.” His jovial demeanor acquires depth and gravity in a heartbeat. “I have to be able to put every ounce of my trust in you, no matter the problem. Also,” he grins, “you have to occupy a secure spot in my affections.” 

She turns toward him, a perfect echo of his solemnity. “I have already done these things to your satisfaction?” She wonders if he will catch the _Have you forgotten that this is only my third month of training?_ buried in the set of her shoulders and the _My transgressions don’t warrant your faith in me, at least not yet_ in the firm, wary line of her lips.

She hadn’t realized that, more than anything else, she needs to share her anxieties. She’d certainly never have believed that Steve would be the person in whom she confides.

He must have some idea of the doubts floating through her mind in spite of her silence because, as she’s still puzzling through the significance of his actions, he’s gathered her into a fierce hug. “Of course.” He leans away, brackets her head in a gentle grip so that she cannot avoid, or ignore, whatever he has left to say. “If people find fault with you, they’re free to bring their argument to me. We’ll have a nice chat. You got me?” 

He levels his gaze with hers, waits for her quiet agreement. “Yes,” he informs the curious tilt of her chin. “I’m sure. You’re missing the movie. Shape up, Wanda.”

*

“Wanda?” The guards in this place have reduced her to pronouns, hurled angrily against walls and sneered between bars at regular intervals – _keep that jacket tight on her; we don’t want to deal with the aftermath if she busts free._ She finds it strange that these men would begin using her given name at this point, after so much time has elapsed.

“Wanda.” Her fellow captives ask after her multiple times a day. They are all imprisoned but, while it’s true that all of their rights have been infringed upon, the boys still possess the freedom to pace as they wish, the ability to feel their torso. Calling her only serves as the edge of her exchanges with each of them; they’ll talk to her for hours if she’ll let them. 

Scott sometimes recounts Cassie’s more entertaining observations about the world which she inhabits: _When you go into ant-mode do your organs shrink too, Daddy? If they do, I can guess what your bug-heart looks like – during reading circles, we’re learning how to make inferences. It’s the shape of a peanut, Daddy! Doesn’t that make so much sense?_ ; nearly as often, the sessions veer into tactical domain, with him laying out maneuvers he’s contemplating bringing in front of the bosses. She patiently absorbs a great number of brainstorms without comment, supplying the occasional insightful revision to repay him for the distraction. 

Sam quizzes her on American history, government, legal procedure, national symbols. As he puts it: “When we break our asses out of this hellhole, you’re applying for dual citizenship, and you’re damn well gonna be ready for the thousand and one inane facts the powers-that-be pull out of thin air! Not that I support mandated naturalization. But a stop-gap that justifies my engagement in a debate marked by the extensive use of my fists if Tony mentions visas, or deportation, or you – unless he produces your express permission, handwritten and signed? I can get on board -” he snaps his thumb and index finger, “like that.”

Clint’s consolations all but undo her. He covertly tosses her the bread from his meal trays – burnt toast, rocky rolls, stale muffins – aware that she drifts towards carbohydrates and coffee, consumes little else in day-to-day life. He’s adamant that, as soon as this whole stupid situation has blown over like so much hot air, she becomes a physical part of the family, leaves the Avengers quarters in the dust. This offer, in and of itself, constricts her chest far beyond the strength of the fabric trapping her, but he doesn’t end on that note. He describes the community college up the road, mentions that Laura’s adjunct faculty and the two of them could carpool in the mornings, dissect major offerings during their rides until she settles on one. He wistfully plots fashioning a walkway between the barn and the house, transforming the rear portion of the wooden shelter into a suite for her. “I mean, you’re always welcome to crash within hearing distance of Clan Barton, but we’re not exactly a subdued crowd. Completely up to you.” She responds with a water-logged, crackly _thank you_ , barely enough to signal her comprehension, let alone convey the bottomless depth of her gratitude.

“Wanda.” Careful pressure travels across her face, cataloguing injures and hoping for a reaction. “Wanda.” The syllables rise and fall in an easy, familiar rhythm, even if, at the moment, she attaches no meaning to them. She would love to placate Steve, crouched with her on the floor, insist that she’s fine, but her voice refuses to comply with the command. “Christ. What…?” He trails over her bindings one by one, although the purpose of the garment has to be obvious, particularly when cast in the strobing glare of her collar’s warning mechanism. He touches that last. “Are you in pain?”

“My lovely little gift comes to life only after I’ve frightened the security team so, not currently, no. I suppose I’m fortunate that none of the agents landed on his switch when – ” Steve reaches out, folds her into his embrace, traces soothing shapes on her spine. 

Once they break contact, he continues inspecting the means by which she’s been contained. “You’re spending five more minutes in here while I short,” he keeps clear of her injurious accent piece, instead guiding his touch over the affected area of her neck, “this out. The whole damn jacket’s attached to you through the piece of shit.” 

Where some would, and most likely do, balk at the vehemence of his resolve, she latches on to the solace she hears. Having completed his circuit, his fingers hover indecisively in midair, afraid to rest on the wrong segment and hurt her. “Are you trying to channel my abilities, Steve? I’m sorry, but I do not think it’s working as you mean it to,” she whispers, a tiny, teasing smirk hesitating at the corner of her mouth.

His laugh rings with relief, loosens a good deal of the tension suffusing his body. “That’s what crowd-sourcing is for.” Suddenly his tone befits his leadership – authoritative and far-reaching. “Fellas. Any strokes of genius for us?”

“If I can crack the Guggenheim’s silent alarm, I’ve got a pretty solid chance with this,” Scott pipes up. “There wasn’t a person attached at the other end,” he hedges, his confidence plummeting momentarily before course-correcting in a flash. “There were lasers though and, in case you didn’t know, lasers are a bitch.” 

Steve brushes a reassuring hand over her hair and down her cheek, then stands and steps back. “It’s all you,” he encourages, waving Scott past him.

“Aye, aye Captain.” Scott salutes, kneels to get a better view of the device with which he’s dueling, pats Wanda’s leg supportively. “I’ve got this,” he tells her, as serious as she’s ever seen him, not a hint of amusement in sight. Resuming his position in the midst of their newly-released teammates, he asks, “Anybody notice any coffee around here? I could use a jolt if I’m going to be my best self while I jump this hurdle.” 

“Svyataya mat,” she murmurs lowly. 

Steve stares pointedly at her; her own eyes widen when she realizes he understands, but she only shrugs. Hear, hear!” Steve shouts, drowning out Scott’s, “That’s ‘Good luck!’, right?”


End file.
